


The Only Jealousy of the Brothers Holmes

by ShannonPhillips



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>amalcolm noted in her request that "There's not a lot of Mycroft fics, and I would like one from his POV, particularly his thoughts on his brother, and his brother's relationship with Watson."  I couldn't quite manage a first-person Mycroft story, so I hope these imaginary conversations from the Diogenes Club are sufficient!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Only Jealousy of the Brothers Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amalcolm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalcolm/gifts).



> amalcolm noted in her request that "There's not a lot of Mycroft fics, and I would like one from his POV, particularly his thoughts on his brother, and his brother's relationship with Watson." I couldn't quite manage a first-person Mycroft story, so I hope these imaginary conversations from the Diogenes Club are sufficient!

 

 

It was not long after the singular events now known to the public as the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter that one Sherlock Holmes paid a call to his brother, in the rooms of the queerest club in London. Sherlock was suffering from the malaise that always overtook him following the conclusion of a case. His prodigious intellect, deprived of exercise, turned upon itself; he was prone to "black moods" and capricious temper; and in this particular instance his manner was more abrupt than usual, for the resolution to the case had not been entirely successful.

"I am not jealous of you, Mycroft," he announced as soon as the two were safely ensconced in the Strangers' Room, the only chamber within the Diogenes Club where speech was tolerated. "For all that your deductive abilities are the greater, your laxity in the Greek affair nearly led a man to his death. A day more, even a minute, and that man would have met his end."

"Then perhaps it is proof of my shrewdness," Mycroft replied mildly, "that I turned the matter over to you."

Sherlock, frustrated, turned away on pretense of filling his pipe, and the two brothers sat together in silence for some minutes. A casual observer would not have guessed their relation: Sherlock was lean and sinewy, his dark angular features full of intensity and his tall frame possessed with a restless energy, as if it housed some burning force constantly driving him from within. Mycroft, by contrast, was positively corpulant, and all that moved of him was his keen black eyes, which took in every detail of his surroundings.

The dedicated observer, however, would have known the two were brothers. They shared a hawk-like nose and a steely gaze. Moreover, there was between them that silent understanding that is seen only between survivors of shared trauma--soldiers who have stood together in bloody battle, or children who have endured much. Of this, they never spoke.

"What do you think of him, then," Sherlock demanded impatiently, as if it were not a new subject of conversation but the one under consideration from the start, "--my Watson?"

"He is among the bravest of men," Mycroft said, "and he loves you well."

"Come now, my dear brother!" Sherlock enjoined: "even the powers of deduction cannot allow us to see into a man's soul. Tell me, how have you reached your conclusions?"

"Surely it is obvious that he took a serious wound in Afghanistan," Mycroft began, but Sherlock interrupted:

"Yes, yes, that much is elementary."

"Most men who have suffered injury are gun-shy ever after," Mycroft explained. "But your Dr. Watson showed no hesitation to race into danger at your side. Therefore, his bravery must be deemed extraordinary."

"And do you deduce his love from the same grounds?"

"Not entirely," Mycroft replied. "For there are other possible explanations: perhaps he is simply the sort of man who thrives on excitement, ever seeking the thrill of danger. No, I was not convinced of his character until I read his account of your adventures. There, he was ever at pains to minimize his own heroics, so that your own might shine. Thus his loyalty to you cannot be questioned."

Sherlock tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. "Your perception is, as always, correct, my brother," he said. "Watson is a rare find, and I daresay I trust him as I have trusted none other."

"If I had such a man at my side," Mycroft rejoined, "I wonder what I might have accomplished?"

Sherlock shot him a quick, bright look from beneath drawn brows. "If I did not know better," he commented, "I would say that I heard envy in your voice."

Mycroft carefully lifted a newspaper, shaking it out with ponderous deliberation. "There has never been jealousy between us."

"As you say," Sherlock agreed, and they spoke no more on the subject that day.

***

It is a fact known to few to that Mycroft Holmes and John Watson met again in private, twice, following their introduction as related in print by Dr. Watson, and not including the occasion upon which Mr. Mycroft Holmes appeared in disguise.

The first of these conversations was brief, for both men were in mourning. Dr. Watson could barely choke out his words, and Mycroft seemed unable to meet his gaze, a fact that Watson attributed to the emotions surrounding the call. For it had recently been announced to the world that Sherlock Holmes was dead, having met his end at the hand of his greatest enemy, at the foot of Reichenbach Falls.

"He loved you," Mycroft said at some length.

"Did he tell you as much?" Watson asked quickly, turning away from the window where he had been studying the ever-changing scenes of life below.

"No," Mycroft admitted slowly, "but he spoke highly of you, and I have never heard him praise another man so."

The good doctor passed a hand over his eyes. "To have so much taken, in so short a time...My family," he said thickly, "urges me to remarry."

"He would want you to be happy," Mycroft said after a pause. Watson searched his face for the smallest of clues, and in his own eyes a desperate hope slowly died.

"It is true then," Watson said heavily. "I had hoped--prayed--that somehow..." He broke off, overcome with emotion. "Forgive me my fancies. I am sorry to have troubled you." And with that, he took his leave.

The next meeting took place after a gap of years, and was prompted by an occasion of joy rather than sorrow: yet Watson's face was grim as he entered the Stranger's Room. He was no longer the browned, lathe-thin young man he once had been--time and grief had etched new lines into his face, and the years thickened his frame--but on this occasion he was deeply angry, and something of the old soldier was visible in his tensed movements and in the unwavering challenge of his gaze. Mycroft observed to himself that here was a man who, though devoted now to the preservation of life, must have once been counted dangerous indeed by his enemies on the battlefield.

"You lied to me," he said without preamble.

"I am so very sorry," Mycroft said carefully. "My brother swore me to secrecy--"

But Watson waved him away. "I do not speak of that. You know--you must know--the nature of our partnership, and how we both have suffered from our separation, from my great mistake. You knew that Sherlock would return, and that there would again be a place for me beside him. You could have given me some hope, some reason to wait."

Mycroft blinked once, slowly. "I could not know," he began, "how long the wait would be."

"It is of no consequence," Watson said tightly. "I would have waited for-ever."

"Yes," Mycroft said calmly. "I know. I felt that duty, duty to my brother's secrets and duty born from regard to your own happiness, required me to urge that you seek comfort elsewhere. Yet I knew you would not. And only that knowledge allowed me to fulfill my duty without shame." He waited, a beat, as some of the fury ebbed from Dr. Watson's frame. "I understand you have sold your practice, and are rejoining my brother in his apartments at Baker Street. I am glad of it."

Dr. Watson looked down. "I have embarrassed myself," he said. "Please forgive me."

"Think nothing of it. You were wronged by this long deception, and I do offer my sincere apologies for the part I was required to play."

"I will--I will show myself out."

Mycroft Holmes remained in the Stranger's Room for some minutes after his guest had departed. "There has never been jealousy between us," he rumbled, after some time, to the empty room. "But if there had been--if there had--" He shook his heavy head, and with care and gravity moved his immense frame back toward the silent depths of the club, and the penetrating solitude of his thoughts.

 

 

 


End file.
